


Gentle

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 11:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14810424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Gladio was perfectly fine with everyone else's assumption that he was just a brute. He and Noctis knew better.





	Gentle

There was an expectation with Gladiolus; he was a big guy, a tough guy, and there was the expectation that he wouldn’t know his own strength. Noctis had been on the receiving end of that strength several times. Pushed or beaten back in training, used to scrambling for his footing under the onslaught Gladio was capable of. And knowing to warp to safer ground when his Shield stepped back and drew a calming breath as he disengaged from the immediate fight. He had watched as Ignis’ speed clashed against Gladio’s brute force in training, in life between them; he had been called in far too often to settle the middle ground between Ignis’ quick thinking plans and Gladio’s stubborn pride. 

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah.”

There was the expectation that Gladio would be a brute in everything. That he was all muscle and nothing else. Those who perpetuated the expectations tended to forget that Gladio’s father was one of the most respected members of the King’s Council in years— careful, cautious, and clever. They tended to forget that Gladio’s family line had held positions other than just “Shield” for centuries, for as long as a Caelum has sat on the throne. 

They tended to overlook Gladio. 

And that’s the way he liked it. 

“How’s this?”

Survivalist training took skilled hands. Gladio was the certified field medic among the four of them, and he knew better than anyone that a careful touch was needed when harvesting plants, when turning the leaves to look for disease or bugs that might hinder an antidote or healing salve. That too much pressure was just as bad as not enough when staunching blood in a wound, and setting splints and bandages would need a delicate touch at times. 

He had always been proud of his stitching when in a pinch. 

And he had years of experience tending to Noctis.

“Stop wiggling,” Gladio admonished as he ran careful hands along Noctis’ leg, as he pressed in careful points along Noctis’ scar— the jagged mark that was nearly faded with time. “You wrenched it pretty good.”

He had learnt that the mark was from a daemon weapon, that it followed the rough, damaged edges of an infection. He had studied the same sort of marks before in his classes, and was told that it would take an Oracle to heal the poison the daemons carried. Children weren’t meant to survive those sorts of attacks. 

“And who’s fault is that?”

“Yours, you brat. I told you to parry.”

“I did!”

“That means stand your ground.”

Noctis had survived, and thrived. 

“You need to pull your punches.”

“And what would that teach you?”

“That you’re not an ass?”

Gladio offered a grin as he finished his checks, and he wrapped Noctis’ knee for the support for now. There would be a bruise at worst. “That would mean lying to you.”

He offered a hand to help Noctis up, and grinned as it was knocked away. Noctis tested his leg carefully, as Gladio had taught him, before settling weight on it enough to take a few tentative steps. One hand shot out to Gladio’s arm as a test failed and Noctis didn’t swat away the new offer of support. 

“You good, highness?”

“I’m good.”

They would postpone the rest of their training session. They would take the afternoon to avoid meetings and politicians, for Gladio to guide Noctis home under the guise of concern for an injury that would heal with rest and some ice. An afternoon that they could take to themselves.

Despite the expectations, Gladio knew his strength. He knew what he was capable of, and what other bodies could take. He knew what Noctis could take. He knew that if he pressed to hard, moved too fast, he could hurt his friend. If he was careless or less observant, the damage done could be irreversible. Even if Noctis had the habit of goading him on. 

Gladio knew when strength was needed; when brute force would be better suited to a training room or escapade. When Noctis needed to hide behind his Shield for whatever reason. 

He knew when he needed to close off the world around them, and settle over Noctis with his hard earned bulk. He could pick up on when Noctis needed to feel large hands on his arms, his back, his hips. Or when to be a bit rougher than usual— when the pleas and praises falling from Noctis’ lips were genuine. 

He knew there were times— quiet, hidden away in the heights of the tower where Noctis’ apartment was closed off to the world, when Noctis needed someone else to take control. To set the pace. Fore the morning to be welcomed with a soft, aching reminder between them. 

“You okay?”

Gladio loved those mornings. 

Gentle mornings where the sheets had tangled around them and light streamed in through the thin cracks in the curtains. Where Noctis would whine and berate him for being too rough the night before, with a smile still playing on his lips. Where Gladio would tease kisses across that smirk, and press his lover down to the soft mattress with his larger hands, and the game would begin again. The teasing of expectations— the illusion that Gladio had no control over his own strength. 

“I’m good, big guy. Want to go again?”

“I think I’m up for it.”


End file.
